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and they think you’re a cheap ass for not bringing gold or frankincense. And it’s a shame when you realize that you won’t get to be in the Bible, and it doesn’t seem right. But then nobody gets to be in the Bible anymore, no matter who they are or what they do, and the sooner you realize that the easier it all becomes. But it’s still a shame.
    And that’s why I had to talk to Bryce. I wasn’t going to be in the Bible, so it was time to make other arrangements.
    He was crouched low, painting the molding around the front door outside the apartment building. He was the landlord, so he had to do that kind of thing. Bryce was tall, about my height but built, with tattoos twisting all the way up his arms, snakes and hearts and daggers and all kinds of shit. He had a drawn, lean face and the transparent remains of a thinning rockabilly pompadour still clinging to his head. He’d probably been in a band a few years ago, bought into the entire scene, but it hadn’t worked out. And now he was stuck with the cigarettes and the sideburns and all those fucking Stray Cats albums. But like the working class hero he’d never become, Bryce hung in the best he could. So while Brian Setzer sang on Gap commercials and pranced around the stage in his fancy pants, Bryce still cuffed his dark jeans and carried his wallet on a chain, still kept the hairstyle even as it betrayed and openly mocked him, still shot pool with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth even though it sometimes fucked up his shot. If it wasn’t exactly noble, it wasn’t without conviction either.
    “So Bryce, we need to talk,” I said seriously, but smiling. I was being funny.
    “Oh hi Shane. Hi. How are you?”
    He stood up from his crouch and held the paintbrush upright so the white paint dripped slowly down the handle and ran onto his tattoos. He didn’t even notice. He was too busy scratching the back of his neck and looking at my shoes. He was always much too nervous for a guy with so many tattoos.
    “That’s just it Bryce.” I kept using his name to build trust, like a hostage negotiator. “I’m not so good.”
    “How much are you short?” His voice cracked on short and he dropped the paintbrush.
    I was stunned. The element of surprise was gone. I had no more time to build trust and pity. I was the worst hostage negotiator ever.
    “Uh, about two hundred.”
    “Oh… Oh…” He bent down to pick up the paintbrush but it kept slipping out of his fingers, the handle hopping off the steps with a tedious tink tink tinktink that was driving me fucking crazy. I wanted to kick him in the face and run away. Then he stood up without the brush and scratched his neck with both hands.
    “We should talk about this,” he said. He was even more nervous than usual. He was tearing at his neck and jerking his head around like a frightened animal, looking everywhere except at me. I was about to be evicted. Fuck. This was no good. Obviously I wanted it to happen, but not yet. The timing was all wrong.
    “Okay, this is serious,” he said.
    Goddamnit Bryce, people are supposed to have more faith in each other. Landlords especially. I’m living in your building. That makes you kind of like my dad. Family is supposed to be important. When I stiffed him on next month’s rent, then he could throw me out with a clear conscience. Until then he was just being a bad father and a dick.
    “This is about my wife,” he said.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “If you do, I’ll take the $200 off your rent.”
    “Do?”
    “Would you?”
    Would I what? Did he want me to kill her? In every movie I’d seen that costs more than $200. Was I supposed to have sex with her? That would make me a whore. Did I really want Bryce as my pimp? No, he was paying me, he’d be my john. But what would that make her? She’d be the groom at the bachelor party who fucks the stripper. I’d be the stripper. What?
    “I didn’t even know you were married,” was all I could get out.
    “I